


Where Angels Fear To Tread

by Rigel99



Series: To Be a Quartermaster [6]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, M/M, SPECTRE Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-05-25 22:23:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 18,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6212464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigel99/pseuds/Rigel99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>M is dead. Bond is in a dangerously roguish mood. Can Q keep a cool head and keep the agent on the straight-and-narrow?<br/>Not bloody likely...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hoping to make this Spectre-Fix It a mic drop. Then I'll leave the building. A ghost in the wind...

James Bond was between missions. Well, official missions at least. He was sitting at the desk in his not-often-used office looking at his computer screen. His former M stared implacably back. The crafty, old bitch wouldn’t let anything as insignificant as death get in the way of doing her job, would she, he pondered.

A knock came, Bond closing the video player just as the door opened.

He smiled at the man standing in the doorframe. God-awful cardigans and corduroys aside, there was something unqualifiedly sexy about Arthur Clifton. Probably a lot to do with the fact that Bond knew all too well how he looked sprawled out naked on his bed and the sounds he could coax out of him whilst enduring the attentions of a Double-O dedicated to putting his back into his job - regardless whether that job be of a vertical or horizontal nature.

“Might I have a word, 007?”

“Of course, Q. Come in.”

“In my office if you’ll indulge me?” Bond flashed a frown. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”

Usually such a request meant a word about something Q didn’t want broadcast on the usual channels. His was the only office free from any listening devices, undergoing a daily sweep by the overzealous Quartermaster. While it was illegal to listen to, but not watch, one’s employees, that didn’t deter perhaps the world’s leading agency in espionage from indulging in the practice.

“Lead the way,” Bond replied, rising from his chair to follow.

A silent 90 second walk and they reached their destination. Q shut the door behind them, tossing the file he was carrying onto the desk and turned to Bond, arms crossed. James assumed his most nonplussed expression and returned the look.

“Problem Q?”

“You’re hiding something from me.”

“I have no sec—“

“Oh bollocks, Bond,” he said with a wave of his hand as he flopped down into his chair. James remained standing. “Our entire existence is built on secrets and subterfuge. I wrote the bloody code on secrets and subterfuge,” he stated, not feigning modesty. It was the cold, hard fact of the matter.

“When did you stop trusting me?” he asked directly, doing nothing to conceal his impatience with the agent.

“Q. I trust you implicitly. That you would even entertain such a thought, I find quite disturbing, given all we’ve shared and continue to share.”

Q huffed. He wouldn’t be appeased. “Regardless. There’s something going on with you. I noticed the change a few days after M’s funeral.”

 _The perils of falling for a far-too-clever-by-half genius,_ thought James silently to himself, his expression never faltering.

And yet, not fooling Arthur Clifton for one second.

Q’s tone softened and he stood with the intent to move closer to James. “Her loss affected us all. But none more than you.”

There were times past, more often than not, that James’ felt the psychological circumstances of his job akin to a form of solitary confinement, his own skull a prison cell. And while he trusted Q with the key to that cell, it was sometimes a wake-up call to realise just how far this man was getting under his skin. Beautiful, irritatingly clever bastard that he was.

 _Crafty bugger. Trying to break me down from the inside out,_ Bond’s inner dialogue kept himself in check. _Q would make a brilliant information extractor, were he not so brilliant at deconstructing and figuring out everything else he laid his hands on. James bloody Bond included…_

“I’m here for you. Always. No matter what, James. You know that, don’t you?” he said, lifting Bond’s hand to place a soft kiss inside his wrist. “I know it’s asking a lot given the full time job it is wearing the MI6 suit but you can put the agent down when you’re with me.”

Bond returned a distractingly charming smile to the man before him. Q rolled his eyes.

“Trust me, Q. If there is anything you need to know, I will tell you…”

Q’s eyes narrowed, telling Bond clearly, by in fact saying bugger all, that this wasn’t over. Bond himself knew the fact of the matter better than anyone.

It was only beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur Clifton knew many things.

He knew his job. Inside out, upside down and in that way Neo Anderson could read streams of code and see a woman in a red dress. Or in his personal preferential case, an MI6 agent in a bespoke suit.

He knew cats.  Furry masters of manipulation that they were. Completely bogging deaf to the sound of their own name. Yet, capable of hearing the rustle of a treat bag opened underwater from 500 yards away.

And, he was getting to know, rather well, one James Herbert Bond.

While Q knew Bond wasn’t lying to him per se, he did know without a shadow of a doubt that the man was concealing information from him. His second nature forte so Q could hardly hold against him the ease with which such behaviour came to the man. What James Bond was about to learn, in a very civilised manner of course, was that your Quartermaster was not to be underestimated and when he wanted to know something, short of time-travelling said something back to the stone age, it couldn’t be hidden from him very long.

And so it was with great pleasure, Arthur Clifton put the man in his place. Or at least took a bloody good shot at it. Q may be an expert at breaking down firewalls, deconstructing code and decryption of secure data, but James Bond was an expert in breaking down people. And when those two elements clash, well, fireworks are an inevitable side effect…

“Arthur?” James called from the bedroom. “Remind me your wi-fi password again?”

Q smiled and obliged, popping cat bowls down to keep the monsters occupied while he opened his own laptop and proceeded to download the contents of James laptop onto his own. Possibly the last thing he expected to see, however, when his mouse gravitated towards the video file and he clicked, was an image of their former Head of MI6 staring back at him. 

A brief message. And a name. _Marco Sciarra._

Q closed the laptop thoughtfully. _Why wouldn’t Bond bring this to Mallory? What possible motive could he have for acting solo on a message from the grave?_

_Love and guilt are powerful motivations in our actions_ , Q supposed, walking back towards the bedroom. 

Bond was in the bathroom, shaving. His weapon of choice, a cutthroat razor. Q joined him, watched the glide of the blade in the reflection of the mirror, wondered if he was about to take his life into his hands.

“Let’s play a game…” he began softly. Bond briefly paused in mid-upward motion and looked at Q. “A bit like word association?”

Bond sighed. “Personally, not so fond of those,” he replied, tapping the edge of the blade against the sink to knock off the excess foam. “Having been on the receiving end of something similar in psych evals.”

“Oh this one is slightly different,” replied Q, easy nonchalance punctuating his light tone. A disarming smile. “It’s called Snog, Shag, Kill.”

Bond stopped his shaving and trained a piercing gaze on Q, completely focussed on the man as he lathered up his own jawline. He adopted a bemused smile, evidently intrigued by what Q was up to and happy to play along. For now. “Alright.”

Q brought the razor to his cheek. “So I say a name and you respond with…”

“Please. Carry on,” said James, folding his arms and facing Q while resting a hip against the sink. They were standing close side by side, but not in each other’s immediate space.

“Eve Moneypenny.”

“Oh shag definitely.” Q’s eyes narrowed.“You could have at least pretended to think about it.” Bond said nothing. Unapologetic as ever.

Q continued shaving. “Bill Tanner.”

“Snog.” No hesitation there either.

“Really.” Q stated.

Bond shrugged. “It’s your game, Arthur.”

“And I find it a most effective method employed if the intent is to shut someone up,” Bond responded coolly.

“Mmm.” Q didn’t pause, finishing off with the blade before grabbing a towel and rubbing his face. He watched in the mirror, Bond reciprocating his gaze intently in return. If Q didn’t know better, he would think James knew what was coming…

“Marco Sciarra.” 

It was the most imperceptible of twitches that gave Bond away at the sound of the name from Q’s lips. His talent for recovery didn’t fail him however. Q wondered if he relished the test and took a lot of pride in his abilities to remain unflappable in the face of surprising information.

He turned from the mirror to look directly at Bond who’s gaze was roaming his face. Without looking down, Bond picked up the cutthroat. “You missed a bit, Arthur,” he said, low and soft. 

Q felt his mouth go dry. Not with fear. It was anticipation. 

Bond stepped behind him and reached around to take his chin in hand, tilting his head to the side and glancing the blade gently up the side of his neck. "There." 

Keeping the moves fluid, he took a small step forward and pinned Q’s thighs against the marble ledge. Q didn’t resist.

He closed his eyes as James’ lips replaced the blade and a hand slipped beneath his robe. The full prelude to the 007 method of information extraction.

Q was powerless under the singular force of Bond’s attentions.

“And how do you know that name, Quartermaster?” he whispered in his ear.

“I— I— may have— have hacked your computer.”

“Oh really? That was rather naughty of you…” His eyes were hard as diamonds, the blue seemed even more so if that were possible. Q could only shut his eyes, the intensity was so overwhelmingly delicious. James Bond was never more dangerous than when in complete control.

He gripped the edge of the marble top. His legs buckled as his body surrendered to the agent’s ruthless and unrelenting attentions. 

Bond stepped away, calmly picking up the hand towel and wiping his hands and the remnants of the shaving cream from his face. He looked at Q then in the mirror. Dishevelled and gorgeous he may well be, thought Bond, but a nosy bastard nonetheless. Still, Bond could forgive once. Inquisitive was one of the many attributes that made him so damn good as Quartermaster.

“I’m going to say it only once, Q,” he said levelly, tossing the towel towards the basket in the corner. “Stay out of this.” He walked out.

Q looked at himself then. Torn between taking another shower and wondering if that little interlude boded really well, or really badly for him. One thing he didn’t have to wonder about though. 

He wasn’t going to allow the man he loved to commit career suicide. Not on his watch.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OK. Spectre spoilers from here on in. I'm not going to into massive detail where the stories runs parallel with each other, just where I'm bringing in the Q-Meister. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am literally - in true 007 style - winging this.

_ “I have some personal business to attend to, Q, in the aftermath of Skyfall. Personal effects to pick up from the family solicitor. I’ll be gone a few days.” _

“Oh? And do I get to know the location of this rendezvous with your solicitor?” Q enquired casually down his mobile line, strolling towards his office.

_“Cayman Islands.”_ Utter bollocks, was Q’s single thought about that though he didn't give voice to that sentiment. 

“Ah. The lair of thieves, liars and vagabonds. Maybe a legal entity closer to home would be more convenient? Or is he in hiding for some reason?”

_ “She. And no. It's just where she happens to be at the moment and one of the many locations my parents used as safe places.” _

Q’s ears perked up at the familial reference. It was the first time Bond had ever mentioned them. Of course, he could just as easily have been trying to throw Q off the scent with regards to his designs on Marco Sciarra. _Nice try, James._

“Well you are on mandatory leave so you can do as you please.”

_“I plan to,”_ came the taut reply. 

Q hung up the call. _And if you think for one second you can pull the wool over my glasses, Commander Bond, think again._

* * *

Where 007 was concerned, most situations could be summed up very neatly in one sentence:

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. 

_Well,_ thought Q to himself, _If I do get caught, at least I'll have company on the cross I'm about to nail myself to._

Before he became Quartermaster, it was a little known fact only a chosen few were privy to that Arthur Clifton was a brilliant hacker who skirted the fine line of the law. Until he stepped over that line. Intelligence services home and abroad had been looking for him for several years, but he remained very much a ghost in the machine. It was only when he gave himself up in person to their former M on the understanding that his record be expunged that he became part of the solution instead of the problem. For which M had been very grateful. He’d always been very grateful in return, for her professionalism, her grace and her unique style of command, particularly where the command of James Bond was concerned. Now that she was gone, and in the transition to Gareth Mallory and the security services merger,responsibility for keeping the reckless bastard out of trouble fell to him.

The lockup where Q kept his “other” equipment wasn’t on any books, any records, anywhere. Well, he wouldn’t be a very good hacker if that were the case, would he? He entered under cover of dark in a little frequented part of London, his own personal mission front and foremost in his mind.

He booted up the computer to bring the satellite online, a satellite belonging to his former employer which he had conveniently “crashed” in the middle of a desert during a sandstorm. A few deft moves with practised fingers and the satellite's signal appeared. Q waited and watched. Patience was another quality he possessed in spades, at least where his job was concerned. He made himself some tea in the interim while the satellite scanned the planet below, searching for its target.

_Not in the Caymans then. What a surprise…_

It was a few minutes later when the blip (literally and figuratively to give him his credit) that was James Bond popped up on the screen.

Q smiled to himself while sipping his cooling mug of Earl Grey. _Well hello, 007. Fancy seeing you here…_

* * *

“Where are you going?”

James paused at the window to throw a reassuring smile back towards his long-legged, brunette companion. “I won’t be long,” he replied, shirking off his outer suit. He stepped out onto the ledge of the hotel rooftop just as he felt his phone vibrate. In the zone and not welcoming the distraction, he didn’t pause his movements as he pulled it out to switch the bloody thing off. But not before he saw the message.

_Hello 007._

James rolled his eyes before quickly typing a response.

_Not now Q._

He switched it off and pocketed it, turning his attention to prepping his weapon while closing in on Sciarra’s location. As he crouched and listened, it was obvious why M had wanted the man dead thus foiling the terrorist designs he evidently had on killing thousands of innocents. Bond took aim and managed to kill his three companions and plant a wounding shot to Sciarra’s shoulder.

The subsequent explosion and the collapse of the building on top of him was unexpected.

He landed on a sofa.

A bloody sofa. His phone vibrated. Remote access. _Irritating little git._  Bond answered.

_“Enjoying Mexico, 007? I hear the tequila is particularly fine where you are…”_

Bond frowned. “How—?”

_“I wouldn’t be a very good Quartermaster now if I didn’t know where MI6’s agents were at all times? Especially when those times involve you running roughshod over another country. With unauthorised use of my equipment I might add…”_

Bond was pushing through the festival crowd, frantically scanning for signs of Sciarra. “Q. I really do not have time for this. I’ve lost—“

Q interrupted. _“No. You haven’t. I’m tracking him now.”_

Bond was about to ask but thought better of it.  _I'm going to spank that smartarse when I get back._  “Where?” 

_“Fifty yards ahead of you. Heading for the town square.”_

Bond heard before he saw the helicopter and knew what he had to do. He wasn’t a religious man by any stretch but on this Day of the Dead, he offered up a prayer to the dear departed anyway.

 _“No need to thank me, 007. See you back in London.”_ Bond couldn’t resist a frustrated growl as the line went dead.

 _Yes you will, Quartermaster,_ he thought, launching himself bodily into the back seat of the helicopter. _I’ll deal with you later, you insufferable little busybody…_


	4. Chapter 4

“Good afternoon, Miss Moneypenny. Looking ravishing as always.”

Eve glanced up from her laptop with a coy smile and a shake of her head. “Welcome back, 007,” she replied, turning her eyes back to the screen and resuming her typing. “Any particular type of flower to your preference?”

James didn’t have to ask to what she was referring. Moneypenny was privy to all manner of inner workings in the higher echelons of MI6. She was a good body to have in your corner. “Not especially,” he replied with that irritating unruffledness he wore like a second skin, raising a thigh to prop himself against the corner of her desk. “Though I am quite fond of Heather. Sheds a heady aroma first thing in the morning.”

Moneypenny, much like Q, could give as good as she got, leaning forward on her elbows, a teasingly demure look on her face as she slanted her gaze to meet Bond’s. “Lucky girl…” she whispered, eyes twinkling. At that moment, M’s door opened to reveal Bill Tanner. Bond looked up and passed the Chief of Staff to meet the eyes of the Quartermaster, standing a few steps behind him. “M will see you now, 007,” said Tanner.

Bond didn’t immediately respond. His eyes fixed on Q, keeping a cool stare trained on the man. He rose from the corner of the desk and they met one another halfway across Moneypenny’s domain. Tannerand Moneypenny could only watch in abject fascination at their slow, subtle dance; Tanner in wonder how they could maintain such a professional relationship without the personal getting in the way, Moneypenny wondering if Q was carrying some residual electricity in his body from his latest Q branch project.

“Welcome back, 007.”

“Q. Always a pleasure to see you.” Bond gave him a cursory once over. “Still on the run from the fashion police I see?”

Q brushed past but turned back towards him as he reached Moneypenny’s desk. “As a matter of fact, they stopped by last night,” he replied, drumming his fingers on the edge of the desk. “Dropped off the belt you lost in Mexico. How you managed to make it back to London with your pants round your ankles is a marvel…”

Before Bond could shape a comeback to counter the restrained look of humour on Moneypenny's face, he heard an impatient huff from Tanner, swiftly followed by a firm bellow coming from the other side of M’s door.

“I haven’t got all day you know, 007!” _Looks like a proper spanking IS long overdue, Q,_ Bond thought to himself. Just as he was turning towards the door to receive his own version of chastisement from his superior, he caught Q’s quick comment aimed at Eve. “Still on for tonight?” She gave a quick nod and a smile to him as he walked off.

“BOND!”

 _One spanking at a time,_ he thought to himself, closing the door behind him.

* * *

“I like the new digs, Quartermaster? Decorate yourself?” Bond strolled into Q branch, Tanner hot on his heels.

“It’s a work in progress. Like many things shaping up in the intelligence service these days,” casting a knowing expression Bond’s way. Bond just smiled. _I don’t remember him being quite this bloody gorgeous,_ he thought to himself, _in all ways._

“I’m certain you’re up to meeting the tasks and challenges of your position head on, Q.”

“It helps to be able to think on your feet,” he replied, gesturing for Bond to follow him, while Tanner hovered by his desk, admiring the latest weapon Q was working on.

“It does, doesn’t it?” _And you’re pretty good at thinking on your back as well,_ Bond thought to himself, a hungry gaze trained on his rear as he led them to a side room.

“Sit.”

“As you wish.” Bond sat.

“Arm out. Palm up,” the instruction crisp and clear. “Brace yourself, 007, you may feel a slight…”

 _POP!_ Bond’s flinch was barely perceptible.

 _“…_ Prick.”

“Smart blood,” he continued, though Bond thought he heard a slight hint of regret in the tone at having to tag the man like a dog. “A gift from M. Though I’m sure it will do little to curb your enthusiasm for gallivanting around the world sans mandate.”

Bond didn’t rise to the bait and rolling down his sleeve, he stood to face Q. Tanner, wisely, had opted to give them a little space and remained in the main room.

Bond’s tone was soft, seductive as he studied Q, retracing the smooth, unblemished lines of his face. To define such a look from James Bond as tangible was an understatement to say the least. “I suppose I should thank you. Mexico could have been a lot worse, for me and for thousands of people…” Q frowned, ignoring the pooling warmth in the pit of his stomach. The words sounded sincere but usually were accompanied by an ulterior motive.

Bond unleashed a charming smile to add to the mix. “You didn’t happen to have anything to do with a strategically placed sofa as well, did you?”

Q couldn’t hold back the laugh then. _Bastard._

They left the side room, Bond pulling back on his jacket. “Plans this evening? After all, I think one good prick deserves—”

Tanner cleared his throat, reminding them of his presence.

“Apologies, Bond, I’m otherwise engaged this evening.” Tanner moved away again, mostly to hide his embarrassment. “Besides,” said Q, voice low. “Don’t you have a funeral to attend?”

Bond smiled. He did. And in that moment, he knew that, no matter what he said or did, no degree of disputing his part in Bond’s posthumous mission would dissuade Q that he did not need his help, and short of tying Q to a chair and locking him in the deepest vaults of MI6, he was going to have an extra set of eyes watching his back.

Consequences be damned.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet I know. Again, trying to avoid a retelling of Spectre. You guys know where it's at!

**_Rome, The Following Day. The Home of Marco Sciarra._ **

Lucia Sciarra stood on the lawn of her home and waited for death.

It was Death Made Flesh, however, who came to her rescue.

“You’ve only stayed my execution. In five minutes, ten more will come to end my life,” she whispered, not looking at the man who had killed her husband and left her open and vulnerable to the unwanted attentions of his employer.

“Good. Time for a drink then,” replied Bond, turning back to her house.

As with most things in the life of an expert at information extraction, it didn’t take Bond long to tease the information he needed to continue on his mission to fulfil M’s final request. Watching the face of the evidently touched-deprived beauty, her gaze open and welcome in the face of the agent’s gentle coaxing, James was struck by the other beauty that graced his life. Dark, soft waves and green-hazel eyes shimmered across his mind, pleasurable associations between past and present making their own unbidden connections. Closing his eyes, pressing her yielding form into the mirror behind them, he opened them again and caught his own gaze in the reflection. Life is certainly full of surprises, sometimes even capable of catching a worn-out, old dog like me off-guard, he thought to himself. He pulled out his phone and hit speed-dial.

He kept soft and soothing lips against her cheek while he spoke into the phone.

“Felix. It’s Bond. I have a favour to ask…”

* * *

**_Back in London…_ **

Q strolled into the pub not far from River House to find Moneypenny being subject to the unwanted attentions of some sweaty-balled Cockney. While he was certain she could hold her own in any situation, sometimes not drawing attention to yourself is the best course of action, tempting as kicking the offending suitor in the bollocks and damaging his prospects of infesting the gene pool might be.

“Thank you, no,” he heard her say levelly, approaching her position. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“At least let me keep you company until… she? he? arrives? I’m wonderful company. With the right incentives,” he finished off with a leer that would have put to shame a teenage boy being treated to his first look at a porn magazine.

Q carried on walking passed them to sit in a corner. If Moneypenny noticed, she ignored him. He popped open his laptop, did a quick search and found the man’s phone signal. Labelled under “Hot Stuff Loves Muff.” What else, thought Q to himself.

He sent a quick, anonymous text and watched the man pull out his phone.

_You do realise that woman you’re chatting up has bigger balls than you?_

The lug frowned and looked around but Q had already risen from his seat and gone to the bar to order a drink. Said buffoon turned his attention back to Eve.

Q sat down again and sent another message.

_And I don’t think she’d be too impressed with your internet search history. Leave. Now._

He watched the sheepish expression descend on his face and the man had the decency to blush. Moneypenny raised an eyebrow as he huffed an apology and retreated. She walked over to the table and smiled knowingly. “What did you do, Q?” she enquired thoughtfully.

Q shrugged as he popped the screen down on his laptop. “00s employ brawn, Quartermasters enlist brain to subdue enemies of the state.”

“Impressive as always,” she said with a smile.

Q reached into his pocket and pulled out a burner phone. “Only one number in there. He’ll call soon.”

“What are you two getting me into now?” she sighed, resigned to her fate and incapacity to refuse these two brilliant men anything.

“The less you know the better. For now,” he said with a smile. “He’ll have questions. Help him find the answers.” He stood. “In the meantime, I’ve got to cover Smartblood tracks and keep M off his back.”

He surprised her by leaning down to brush a soft kiss across her cheek. “Thank you, Eve.” He blushed, surprising himself with the move. Moneypenny just smiled in return. “I think the moves of a certain agent are rubbing off on you, Q.”

“Oh, what utter bollocks,” he mumbled defensively, strolling towards the exit, Eve watching him depart over her shoulder.

Despite his retort, they both knew better though, knew that was exactly the truth of the matter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: If you really, really liked Dr Swann's character, then maybe from here on is not for you. Though I'm not afraid to wager there is enough 00Q love here to forgive me for what I am about to do. :)

**_Later That Evening, Back in Rome_ **

_“Cuckoo…”_

It was safe to say it took a hell of a lot to rattle the impenetrable cage of James Bond. On seeing the face from his broken past turn from the shadow to allow the light of the present to reveal his existence, the boy long since thought dead came avalanching with full force into his world. James was left with only one option.

_Run._

* * *

**_Tokyo_ **

Tanner’s heart sank when the alert popped up on his screen.

**High speed car chase lands Aston in River Tiber**

He typed a quick message to M, seated the other side of Max Denbigh, the soon to be head of the united forces of MI5 and MI6, spearheading the Nine Eyes Initiative. M was watching the vote with baited breath when the message popped up on his screen.

_Are we sure Bond is in London?_

Mallory looked over at Tanner with the expression of a man who was wondering why the hell he’d allowed himself be talked into taking the blasted position in which he now found himself.

He exited the room and dialled his Quartermaster. “Where’s Bond? Right now. And he better be where you say he is otherwise you’re in deep shit, Q…”

* * *

**_Heathrow Airport, London_ **

Q had bought them 48 hours. At least with M otherwise occupied in Tokyo there was time enough to hopefully get the intel Bond needed from the former head of Quantum, Mr White, so they could get the hell back to London before Mallory’s return.

He powered down and closed his laptop after reconfirming Bond’s European location. He'd be there in less than four hours. _God, it'll be good to see him again._  He checked his seatbelt and stared straight ahead. Q gripped the armrests of his seat as he felt the plane’s engines power up for takeoff. 

He closed his eyes and thought of James. _Good thing I love you so bloody much, you reckless arse,_ he thought to himself.

* * *

**_Bond's Location, Austrian Alps_ **

Bond was high on adrenaline when he crashed through the door of Q’s hotel room.

“FUCK!” He hissed, slamming the door behind him.

Q stood up from the laptop where he had been working, compiling the results from his analysis of Sciarra’s ring. Questions had been answered and theories had become fact. Their former M had been on the trail of something bigger than any of them imagined, and the Nine Eyes Initiative posed an unprecedented danger. Q could tell, however, that right at this moment, something more pressing required his attention and ministrations.

Never having been in immediate physical proximity with the agent in field operations of this nature, the sight of Bond in such disarray left him somewhat unsure if it was wise to approach him while in this state of mind.

He trained his voice level and calm, naturally falling into a cadence that Q knew would bring him down.

“What’s wrong, Bond?”

He looked up then, registering him for the first time since entering the room. He felt his shoulders tense. Q recognised the signs of internal battle.

Bond’s trained emotionless response reared to the surface. “I lost the girl. Dr Swann. White’s daughter.”

Q lowered his gaze, relaxed his body, moving carefully towards the agent as one would approach a skittish stallion. Bond’s mouth was a tight line. Q could sense he was beating himself up internally. So he kept silent, giving Bond space to process.

His eyes were screwed shut, hands clenching and releasing in an effort to calm boiling blood. “Another innocent. Gone.”

“You know it’s not your fault, 007.” His eyes flew open at those words and sapphire blue flared in anger. He lunged at Q, directing all the pent up coil in his muscles at the man, tossing him roughly against the wall. Q knew there was no point resisting and despite the attack, knew Bond would not truly hurt him. “You shouldn’t be with me. I can’t keep you safe,” Bond's words were deliberately harsh, his eyes cold. An attempt to push the man away.

“And yet here I am, a fool rushing in,” whispered Q.

Q felt James' body’s tension soften just a touch, a resigned sort of ease.

“James…”

The sound of his name from Arthur Clifton's lips was all it took to push through the battle shield to the human being lurking quiet and repentant beneath the armour.

Q felt the switch flick and James relaxed against him, falling into his body, pressing him further against the wall.

“James…” He spoke his name again, softening the battle lines within him and between each other.

Q felt more of the tension ebb away from Bond’s body, the man dragging him into his arms and burying his face into Q’s neck.

“You always get me home,” Bond’s muffled voice, warm against his skin.

“I am your Quartermaster,” he whispered against his ear, ghosting gentle fingers along the side of his neck.

“Are you with me, James?”

“Almost…” he murmured, leaning back for a moment, only to lean forward immediately again to capture Q’s lips between his own. He released him a few long moments later and turned him round to face the mirror on the wall behind them, placing the palms of Q’s hands flush against the smooth surface. Q gazed at Bond’s reflection in the glass. He rested his chin on his shoulder, the trembling in his hands subsiding as he caressed Q’s hips. Somehow, Q knew exactly what to say.

“I am your Quartermaster,” he repeated softly. Bond’s hands moved to undo his belt.

“You always get me home…” the agent repeated back, the self-soothing words, anchoring him back to the solid space occupied by Q.Dropping to his knees behind him, James spoke his next words into the small of his back, breath now even, steady, reverent, worshipping the vessel of his Quartermaster’s mind.

“I want you to watch yourself in the mirror. I want you to see what I see when I take you, break you apart, love you…”

So Q did as he was told.

And _may_ _God Almighty erase him bodily from the world with a bolt of lightning,_ if the next seven minutes weren’t the most _insanely_ erotic of his life.

He reached a hand around his back to grab James’ shoulder and was awarded with a small jolt of electricity coursing through the narrow gap between them from the fabric of his jacket to Q’s index finger.

“No touching,” James whispered.

Q withdrew his hand and placed it back on the mirror, his mind a pulsing riot, images straining against each other, warring for his attention. Q found himself focussing on the movements of Bond’s hands, those in which his lips were currently engaged being too overwhelming to begin to contemplate. Bond’s fingers were like soldering irons across the planes of his still-clothed spine, trailing down to come briefly to rest at the back of his thighs. Q marvelled at the sensation of the skin currently responding to James’ touch, rising in its wake, as though chasing the heat, like the points of metal on a circuit board would chase the heat of the iron as it pulled away.

“Are you still watching?” whispered James, barely pulling his lips away from the current focus of his plundering attentions.

_“Yeesss…”_

“Good.”

Q’s pliant and relaxing responses were having a similar effect on James. The agent rose from his crouched position to glide his hands up the sides of Q’s body and wrapped one arm around his still jumper-encased torso whilst using his other hand to free himself.

Bond couldn’t resist a smile when he allowed his gaze to meet Q’s over his shoulder in their reflection. “Are you sure you can see, Arthur? Your glasses appear to be suffering from a layer of condensation.”

Q pitched his head down to reveal eyes in which Bond could easily drown, and frequently did.

“If you didn’t have me in such a vulnerable position, 007…“

The violence of the past hour was fast becoming dull, muted white noise in the back of Bond’s mind, replaced by the throb and hum of the beautiful man pressed against him, surrendering to their mutual need.

…”You might find—Ah!”

Pushing forward, James felt his control ebb back through him, his Quartermaster grounding him completely again.

“But I have you exactly where we both want you to be. Do I not, my beautiful, complicated mind?”

Arthur Clifton was in no position to argue.

Q allowed the muscles in his body to unfurl, each word accompanied by James’ demands to succumb, his body welcoming yet another consummation of their union in the wake of devastation and blood.

Such was the burden of the modern day soldier.

Each push was excruciating in its gentleness, the feel of a firm, velvet rose petal drenched in summer rain. Q struggled to focus on his reflection while James’ soft touch, in complete diametric opposition to the violence the agent had just waged on Britain’s enemies, persistently nudged him towards the edge of his own sanity.

“Look at me, Arthur.” Q allowed himself a glance. The look of complete trust and devotion was almost too much.

It was too much.

James could only continue to smile at the flush travelling up Q’s neck to infuse his cheeks. He chased the heat with his mouth, teeth and tongue unerring and relentless in their pursuit of Q’s pleasure. It was beautiful. He was beautiful. He was his, settling around him like an aura of possession. It swirled and swelled inside him, seeking release lest he implode. 

_“Jammmeesss…”_

It shouldn’t come as a surprise to the Quartermaster despite their both being nearly fully-clothed, James Bond could drive him out of his own mind with desire and need.

James’ gripping embrace tightened around his chest for the briefest of moments, his gaze locked and never leaving that of Q’s, before he pitched forward with a growl that would have made Q’s cats run for cover. He fell forward and reached up to brace his hands on either side of Q’s against the mirror.

Breath returning to normality with more speed than it had any right, James’ withdrew from his Quartermaster and turned him around. He pressed his back against the mirror, firm, strong hands bracing his forearms to the wall. The kiss was hard, demanding everything Q had left to give. Combined with a few well-targeted moves from James’ hips against his partner had Q moaning his name with a reverence that for the briefest of seconds had James thinking maybe there was a God. If he did create man in his own image, it would have been appropriately made in the image of his Quartermaster in this moment, the seventh minute since he had entered the room. Minutes are precious to those who walk the fine line between life and death.

Most days.

Today, it paid to count them.

Q was looking at him with a sated, sombre expression. “I wonder. Will it always be like this, James?”

James leaned back but kept their hips pressed together, burying his hands in Q’s impossible, inviting waves. “I hope so,” he murmured. “I’ve found I quite enjoy dying on my feet for Q and Country.”


	7. Chapter 7

“I thought you didn’t like flying.”

“I don’t,” said Q, adjusting his seatbelt for the third time, sparing his flight companion a disapproving look over the rim of his glasses. “But apparently, in recent times, I’ve become more prone to stepping out of my comfort zone. Thanks to the singularly bad influence of a certain Double-O.”

“Comfort zones are overrated,” replied Bond.

“I happen to like my comfort zones, thank you very much, James,” Q huffed, fidgeting in an effort to make himself comfortable.

“Oh I’m not saying I don’t enjoy them.” Bond dropped his voice and leaned sideways towards him. “Especially when that comfort zone happens to be somewhere in the nether regions of Section Q…” he whispered mock seductively.

The stifled guffaw that erupted from Q took a few of the neighbouring passengers by surprise. Q reddened, mumbling an apology in his quintessential British manner for the disruption, while Bond just chuckled away, smugly proud of his ability to so effectively distract the man.

“Don’t suppose you’d be up for joining the Mile High Club en route, Arthur?”

 _Oh for buggering heaven’s sake…_ thought Q. “If you don’t shut up, Bond, I’m going to rig the plane to crash and ensure you are the only passenger without a parachute,” he mumbled.

Bond smiled and shrugged. He’d gotten out of trickier situations than that.

So absorbed in their shared banter, neither man noticed they were being watched from a few rows back.

* * *

**_Tangier, Morocco._ **

James and Q stepped out of the taxi to be greeted by the sight of a quaint little hotel, evidently a romantic getaway that seemed part of and yet apart from the city.

“You're sure this is it, Q?” Bond surveyed the building, recalling the last words spoken to him from the dying lips of Madeleine Swann.

_L’Américain. Tangier. Room 314. Spectre._

“Quite,” he said confidently.

Bond nodded, trusting his assessment without further question. “Let’s find out what’s so special about this little hideaway then.”

They requested the room, the concierge not sparing them or their request further question, accepting the charm laid on thick and hard by James about their wonderful hotel being recommended by a couple who holidayed here every year and raved about the place. He accepted the compliment and knew immediately the couple to whom Bond was referring though commented on the fact that in recent years the husband had come alone and last year not at all. Marriage troubles, he was led to believe. Bond nodded, relaying an understanding smile before accepting the key and leading them to the elevator that would take them to the third floor.

“What do we expect to find?” asked Q, entering the elevator ahead of Bond. The doors slid shut before he replied.

“Answers.”

* * *

Two hours and an extensive search of the room later and they hadn’t found any answers. Q, however, had helped himself to a complimentary bottle of champagne and was well and truly through that when James pulled a bottle of something that was suspiciously clear from an concealed compartment in the wall opposite the bed.

They gave up on the search - temporarily - in favour of getting drunk.

James was laughing softly. Not quite as inebriated as Q, he had after all, had much more practice at holding his liquor than the bolshy boffin. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you quite this drunk before,” he said before supping another draft directly from the bottle.

“Really?” Q frowned whilst allowing his body a gentle sway against James, both sitting side-by-side on the floor at the bottom of the bed. “Not even that time you rescued me from the bottom of that bottle of Scotch I was determined to drown in the day of Charles’ funeral?”

“Not even…” sighed James, closing his eyes and allowing his head to slump back to rest on the edge of the bed. Q snagged the bottle away from Bond and rose it to no one in particular.

“To the dead!” he said sardonically and downed a mouthful of the sweet liquid. “They did after all, bring us together…”

Bond frowned at the toast. “What does that mean?”

“Think about it,” said Q, his mouth running away with him. “If Charles were still alive, if Vesper were still alive. We wouldn’t be together. M recruited me, she recruited you. She brought us into each other’s world.” Bond grabbed the bottle from him. “Enough,” he gritted out angrily. Q immediately looked chastised. “I’m sorry, James.” He ran his fingers through his hair, dampened from the city's close, almost stifling humidity. “Sometimes, just… when I step outside and look back in at myself and what I’ve become… it’s just all so fucking surreal.”

The sun was just beginning to set over the city. It cast a warm glow around the room. Despite everything, Bond felt himself relax again. It never failed to amaze him the sense of peace he felt when in proximity to Q. Yet, though he felt he barely knew the man, his past as closed a book to him as Bond’s own was to Q, the sense that he could trust him with his life never faltered. Maybe that’s why he felt comfortable saying the next words. Though a relaxing of his tongue was likely assisted by their shared bottle of liquor.

“I don’t want to lose you too, Arthur.”

Q raised his head to look at the agent. “I have no intention of being lost, James.”

Q intended to ease his concern by making light of the comment. “Very good with maps me,” he giggled. “One of my many hidd—“

Bond reached over to take hold of his chin so their gazes locked. “I mean it,” he stated, sounding more sober than he had a right to be.

James watched Q’s features soften in the light, an expressive thoughtfulness descend on them as though he was about to launch them into some profound discussion. Bond was having none of that. He reached with his free hand to remove Q’s glasses.

“James. There’s something I have to tell you…”

“Later. Right now, my immediate agenda does not require words. Unless they consist of “now, me, James and fuck”. And not necessarily in that order,” he growled, pulling Q to his feet. He looked at the bed thoughtfully, considering his options. “Forget the bed,” he said, hoisting Q up to wrap his legs around his waist, turning them towards the undamaged wall. “I have a better idea involving christening a wall on every continent with the imprint of your back…” Just as he finished his sentence, Bond thrust Q’s pliant body against it, hard enough that it gave way and both men went crashing through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: The Vesper Tape.


	8. Chapter 8

“Well,” coughed Bond, “disentangling himself from Q, standing up and dusting off the rubble. “That answers the what’s so special question then,” he said, hauling his spluttering companion to his feet.

Not knowing the dimensions of the other rooms, Bond had simply assumed that the partition divided them from the hotel room next door. Instead, an attempt at a bout of semi-drunken sex had revealed a secret alcove containing a wealth of information that White had no doubt been gathering as collateral against his former employers.

Q surveyed their newly discovered surroundings. “Huh. A secret lair. This job is nothing if not a constant journey of discovery. I was starting to think we were being led on some wild goose chase,” Q stated, dusting himself off where he stood.

“Entirely possible,” mumbled Bond, moving towards the desk by the wall. “But for Dr Swann’s confirmation of the reality.”

Q had taken a seat and was rifling through the papers on the desk, seeking something familiar. Something that might trigger a memory… He was momentarily distracted by the pause in Bond’s movements and looked over to catch him motionless and staring at a VHS tape. Still slightly intoxicated, he scoffed at the archaic bit of technology, “that’s more ancient than even you, Bond.” Standing to look over his shoulder at what had him so enraptured, he caught the name on the tape and felt himself rapidly sober up.

“Oh…” _Vesper Lynd._

Q didn’t know when he’d started to literally take his life into his hands. But he said the words anyway.

“You should watch it.” Bond didn’t spare him a glance, moving to toss the tape to the side, just as Q reached for it and snatched it from his hand.

Without another word, he slipped it into the recorder and switched on the attached screen. Q looked over his shoulder to see Bond standing with his back to him, a model of tension and barely concealed anger radiating from him.

Q still wasn’t sure what was compelling him to stumble on relentless. Maybe he was tired of the heat, the perpetual secrecy, watching someone he cared for - fuck cared for, loved - tear themselves apart for the choices they’d been forced to make. Yes indeed, he thought to himself, turning back to the screen. Time for some tough love. No more Mr Nice Q. “For fuck’s sake, James,” he grumbled. “It’s time to shut this chapter of your life. Betrayal is part of the world in which we operate and if you’re not used to it by now…”

Q hit play.

* * *

He’d seen photos of Vesper Lynd, and it had not been lost on him that they could well share a paternal or maternal thread in their DNA. He and James had even broached the subject once.

 

_Early morning London rain was beating hard against the bedroom window of Arthur Clifton’s home. The presence of a pair of blue eyes in the bed next to him was more than enough compensation for the lack of sky presently obscured by heavy clouds. Bond was running his fingers through thick, untamed waves while Q felt himself hover on the cusp of sleep once more. It must have been that half-drowsy, unguarded state that permitted the words to tumble softly from his lips. “Do I remind you of her?” Bond’s hand had barely faltered in its tender movements. He would have known his nerdy, eagle-eyed boy misses nothing and always knows more than he lets on about the more subtle nuances of life. Even for someone so immersed in their work, other worlds still existed of which he was profoundly aware between the lines of code he loved so much._

_“At first. Yes. You did,” whispered Bond, wrapping a strong hand around his neck to pull him close. “But now, now you’re Q, body and soul. Quartermaster, Arthur. Mine…”_

_And nothing more was said._

 

Vesper was sitting in a chair, motionless, her inscrutable stare trained unblinking at the camera. A voice from behind the lens spoke with a deadly, level tone that broached no compromise, no bargaining, no mercy.

 _Mr White._  

“You will do this for my employer. Or your lover will die. Can you live with his blood on your hands?” She looked past the camera then to the voice beyond. “You don’t strike me as a man who indulges much in mercy regardless what I do or do not do,” she replied, just before a body came from the side of the frame and laid a brutal flat-palmed blow across her face.

_-CUT-_

The bruise on her cheek appeared flared and blossoming under the harsh light of the enclosed space where she sat. “Spoilt for choice, aren’t we, Ms Lynd?”

That voice again. Soft, self-assured. Knowing that no matter how long and drawn out the dance, victory would ultimately belong to him. “Life comes with costs. Some costs long before death himself graces our threshold. Do you think your government will miss a few million pounds? They might miss a precious asset of the Secret Service more…”

_-CUT-_

“Turn it off, Q.” Q obliged though he was curious to watch more. He stood and turned towards Bond. There was a slight, tired sag around his shoulders now. He was staring blankly into space.

Q placed a hand on the agent's shoulder. “This fucking ghost of an organisation has had us chasing shadows for far too long,” he said softly. “Don’t you think it’s time we exorcised the demons from our world?”

Bond lifted his head then and rolled his shoulders back, once again assuming the look of a man on a mission and the blue steel gaze returned Q’s determined look.

“What are we waiting for?”

Agent. Protector. Assassin.

And his Quartermaster would be right there beside him.


	9. Chapter 9

The train was quiet. Blissfully so.

The compartments were small so Bond left Q alone to shower before joining him for food in the centre carriage. It gave the agent some time to contemplate on everything that had happened and ruminate on the almost certain danger into which he was leading Q right now.

The Quartermaster had proven to be worth his weight in gold, easily locating the area in the desert for which they were destined, in which White and his daughter had pointed them. Still, he thought ruefully, he should have sent him back to London. Yet….

The truth of the matter was simple enough even Bond couldn’t deny it. In Arthur Clifton, he’d found what he’d been searching for and somehow felt all the more invincible for it. After so many experiences and years of betrayal he’d found someone he could trust. Unequivocally. Still, there was that niggling sensation that there was more to the man than even Bond could fathom, and he was bloody good at reading people. Coupled with the knowledge he was being selfish, keeping Q so close and putting him in danger, made for some conflicting feelings. Not that he could stop the stubborn little shit from sticking his oar in. He could, however, confidently compartmentalise those feelings. He had years of training and practice doing so after all, but he was aware they were ever-present. Sitting comfortably on the edge of his consciousness, like his Mother’s smile, his Father’s godawful attempts at quoting Shakespeare, Vesper’s eyes…

He was undoubtedly heading exactly where SPECTRE wanted him, exactly where Obenhauser wanted him. Obenhauser. It seemed he wasn’t the only one with a knack for resurrection. White had been right. He was a kite dancing in a hurricane, but now, holding firmly onto his string, grounding him, was his Quartermaster. Bond was under no illusions about his place in the world. He was a killing machine. Being human had not been an option since his parents died. That day was the day he put away childish things and became a man. He stood to the sound of compartment door at the end of the carriage sliding open and smiled.

_For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known._

As expected. Bond swore that Arthur wore those cardigans he favoured so just to annoy him and because he knew Bond was always motivated to get him out of them in the shortest time possible. What Bond did not expect was to see the gun in Q’s hand as he raised it and pointed it in his direction.

“James. Down. Now.”

Bond turned when he heard the door at the other end of the carriage slam back and backed away as the assassin Hinx moved swiftly through and towards them. Bond dropped to the floor while reaching for his own weapon inside his jacket. Q got off four volleys into the body of the man before Bond had landed his first. Hinx crashed down heavily on Bond as he collapsed under the barrage of bullets.

He was looking over the shoulder of the body of their would-be killer when Q reached him. “Need a hand, 007?”

“That would be lovely, thank you, Q.”

With some difficulty, they rolled the dead weight off him and he stood up straightening his jacket and pulling down his sleeves. “Well. Glad to see our time on the shooting range is paying off.”

Q rolled his eyes, tucked the gun into the small of his back and folded his arms. “A thank you would have sufficed, though I shouldn’t be surprised you’d take the credit for my saving your backside. Again.”

James just smiled at him then, giving him the look of a man with the intention of furthering the evening’s exploits in a direction Q was more than happy to take. “Would it be inappropriate at this time to point out that I have saved my own backside on numerous occasions with the full intention of handing it on a plate to you?”

* * *

The frantic motions slowed as soon at they entered the confined space of Bond’s compartment. Rushed and hurried touches became slow and liquid as they moved hands, arms, legs over each other, wrapping and unwrapping each other again and again until it felt almost as though flesh was undergoing some kind of alchemic fusion. The slide of Q’s hand down Bond’s arm to snare his wrist; the gentle caress of lips across freshly healed scars, a touch that delved deeper to heal old wounds that Bond had long since forgotten. Yes. Arthur Clifton knew maps. And he knew the map of Bond’s body as well as the codes he had written with the power to create and destroy. Right now, he was focussed on destroying James Bond. In the most pleasant of ways possible of course.

“You know something occurred to me earlier,” Q said, not pausing in his movements.

“Mmm?” Bond returned the favour in kind.

“I really, really love weapons.”

“Yes well in light of your chosen vocation in the SIS it would be a poor show if you didn’t, Q.”

“And now, I get to make love _to_ a weapon…”

Q watched Bond’s eyes noticeably darken while he slowly trailed his hand down the back of the man to come to rest on smooth skin beneath his underwear.

“Care to elaborate on that train of thought, Quartermaster?”

“I find weapons respond much better to actual testing. We can learn so much more about their responses and how to tune and retune those responses through experience rather than simply exchanging academics on the subject?” he replied, his voice soft and sultry while his hands moved to mirror the position of Bond’s own hands on his body, giving his fingers permission to slip down, under, around and come to rest exactly where he planned to end up mere minutes from that moment.

Bond allowed himself a soft groan into Q’s neck. “Shhh,” whispered Q. “Hear that?”

He looked up from the attention he was lavishing across the Quartermaster’s chest. “What?” his expression reflecting concern. They were both silent for a few moments but all Bond’s trained senses could discern was the rhythmic sound of the train rolling over the gaps in the tracks.

Q was staring at him with an intensity of concentration he usually reserved for his hacking endeavours. “That’s the rhythmic motion I’m going to be taking you to over and over until you pass out from pleasure,” he whispered pushing him down and mounting him on the bed.

James’ last coherent thought was that it was a damn good thing that this was an overnight train.


	10. Chapter 10

James didn’t know what his next gameplay was going to entail. He rarely did, being such a creature of instinct. But he knew that if he needed him, Q would step up to the plate. The arena of espionage in which they currently found themselves was literally his expertise. Those shadows and lines of code through which M had been chasing the illusive shape of SPECTRE for so long. In her time, she had unable to provide definite evidence of their existence but knew - creature of instinct she herself was - that all the troubles and challenges faced by her intelligence in recent years sprung from that source. A pattern had emerged. A pattern that weaved together the human elements of the business of espionage and the new wave of terrorism that was surging through them, attempting to wash them all away in the swell of its unseen power. But M had known. While these rogue elements used the shadows to their advantage, they themselves still cast shadows of their own. And the old dogs of MI6 still knew how to use those shadows to their advantage.

A thirty minute drive and they had arrived at their destination. Neither man spoke on the journey there. Silence as effective a weapon as the words spoken between colleagues, friends and lovers. On arrival at the desert complex, rooms and a fresh set of clothes were provided. As Q took in the room, a framed photo on the nearby dresser caught his eye.

It was a picture of him and Charles Sebastian on the day he told him he had incurable cancer. Possibly the worst day of his life. It was a quiet coffee shop on the Southern coast, one of their favourite haunts. Charles hand rested on his. Q had dropped his head and didn’t have to see his own expression to remember the tortured moment in which he had witnessed his entire future with the man before him crumble to dust and be scattered to the winds.

No crueler fate than to love and to lose.

His next thought was where they had sourced the photo. White was honest in that regard, he thought. SPECTRE truly were everywhere. And nowhere. Well, at least until now. Now he and James had travelled through its open jawsand into the belly of the beast.

He also knew they were on their own, the last encrypted call he had made to his right hand in Q Branch to order her to wipe all evidence of Bond’s Smart Blood.

* * *

Bond was having an equally enlightening time in his quarters. A similarly framed image of the man who had fostered him after his parents’ accident and the boy who became his foster brother for a brief time cast a sombre trio in the photo that graced the dresser of his room.

A lifetime… No. Maybe two lifetimes ago. Because since the loss of his parents, the carving of a life into an indispensable cog in the SIS machine, he had since begun a third phase in the life and times of James Bond. A life with Arthur Clifton.

Bond wondered for a moment what M would make of it all. What he had found, guided almost entirely by her hand, whether he wanted to admit the truth of that to himself or not. Her chosen two. Together facing the SPECTRE that had plagued her in the years leading to her end.

Bond was not a sentimentalist. Nor did he believe in any other fate but the one he made. They were teetering on the edge of something monumental - a scenario with a number of possible outcomes, and as with most scenarios of this making, a sacrifice would be expected. It felt a little like playing chess blind. But in the end, Bond would do what needed to be done. As far as he was concerned, all he had to do was to get close to Obenhauser and this could be ended. He only hoped he wouldn’t be ending himself and Q in the process. He’d grown quite fond of what they had together.

* * *

“He’s waiting for you.” The man, whom Bond recognised from his infiltration of the meeting in Rome as one of Obenhauser’s close associates greeted them in the hallway as they exited their rooms, fresh dressed. “This way please,” he said, extending his hand in the direction he wished to take them. Bond glanced at Q. He had been pleasantly surprised at the seemingly unnerved state of his Quartermaster. Not a field agent, but displaying the first class behaviour expected of an employee of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.

Champagne was declined, despite thirst and the obvious temptation. Neither Bond nor Q were ones for taking unnecessary risks. Stupid risks maybe where Bond was concerned, thought Q to himself, but never unnecessary. As they entered the dark room where their host awaited them, Q considered what he had done, how far he had come to be here, in this moment. He looked at the agent next to him who was fighting the urge to give him a reassuring squeeze of the arm. It would not do to betray any feelings beyond their professional relationship while in the situation. Such displays never ended well. Q took a deep breath to steady himself. The shadows opposite them on the far side of the room moved into the warm stream of sun spilling from the skylight above, the only source of light in the room and their host stepped forward to reveal himself.

Everything was converging, aligning right now. As the three men stood and appraised each other, Bond felt the thud of his heart increase, noticing the look Obenhauser was directing at Q. _He knows him…_

He turned and gave Bond a most predatory stare. “James. My little cuckoo. I am so gratified you could make it.” He returned his gaze to fall upon Q who had remained riveted to his position, eyes never leaving the man responsible for so much havoc, so much destruction, so much loss.

“Arthur,” he said, an almost tender fondness lacing his tone. “I am especially glad to see you, my little Bombe…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't see that coming, did ya? :D 
> 
> I have a few scenarios rolling round in my head as to how this plays out so hopefully those who have come this far with me will be patient a little longer while I pull together what I hope will be a satisfying conclusion for all. (James and Arthur included of course.)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I've just spent my morning admiring much wonderful 00Q fanart on Pinterest. Such talent in the fandom! It's enough to give a girl goosebumps. Next chapter up. This is not the end. So no need to hold your breath and count to ten just yet. Flashback time!

* * *

**_Another Lifetime Ago…_ **

Before Q, there was Arthur Clifton. Boffin. Genius. Renegade Master of the inner workings of ones and zeros. Shirker of the norm.

An unparalleled talent whom many on both sides of the track were keen to recruit. The day he was marked, Arthur Clifton’s future was destined to be wholly different than he expected.

SPECTRE may have thought he was theirs for the taking. But the Universe apparently, with a little assistance from love, had other designs on the future path of the man who would one day walk where angels feared to tread.

“You’re still here…” the voice from the bed softly whispered.

Arthur immediately raised his head from his iPad and reached for the glass of water from the side of Charles’ bed. He leaned forward to tip some of the liquid into his parched mouth. “Of course, I’m still here. Where else would I be, you daft brush?”

He looked up at him while Arthur rested Charles’ head carefully back to the pillow and repositioned the glass. “Surely you have better things to do?”

Arthur scoffed. “Than be by the side of the man I love? I think not, Charles,” he replied, watching him keenly for any signs of discomfort.

“How is the furball?” Charles enquired.

Arthur sat on the edge of the bed. “Annoying little shit as always.” Arthur stared out the window. “She misses you terribly of course. You who spoil her so.”

Charles patted the mattress. “Lie down with me. Let me hold you.” Arthur carefully positioned himself alongside his fragile soulmate, both knowing but neither voicing what they both knew inevitable.

“You know I love you,” he whispered into Arthur’s temple. “I would do anything to protect you.”

Arthur tilted his head up then to look into his eyes. “I wish…”

“Shhh, don’t say it. Please,” Charles whispered. “This is how it is meant to be, and you my little Bombe, are still destined to change the world.”

His shoulders, nor did any sounds, betray the tears that were gently forming in Arthur’s eyes. Charles was stroking his hair. “I won’t miss this mop though. Always clogging up the shower, shaggy mare…”

“Fuck off,” he said, feigning good humour. “You love it,” Arthur replied.

“And falling for it and for you was the best thing that ever happened to me,” he whispered, exhaustion obviously overtaking him again. “You made me a good man, Arthur Clifton.”

Arthur chuckled at that. “You were always good, Charles.” _Not always,_ Charles thought to himself, reaching beneath his pillow. “Here. For you.” Arthur reached forward with the hand resting on Charles’ chest to take the silver locket from him, just as Charles’ own hand slipped away and he allowed unconsciousness to wrap itself around his mind again.

Arthur turned it over between slender fingers and pushed the clasp to open the trinket. “It’s…” Inside, on the left, a small photo of them on their wedding day. On the right, what looked like a locker key. “Beautiful…” he murmured, a small frown falling across his brow. He shut the locket and rested his head back down on Charles’ shoulder. Closing his eyes, he savoured what he knew would soon become the last breaths of Charles Sebastian.

* * *

It was late when Arthur got home. Empty. Exhausted. It was difficult to think beyond the moment because in that given moment, Charles was still alive. Arthur had been preparing himself for the inevitable crumbling of his world but he knew when it came, no amount of preparation would stay the feeling of his heart being ripped out of his chest. He fingered the locket around his neck while watching George devour his pouch of food. He headed to the living room and pulled their wedding photo album from the bookcase. An intimate affair, driven by the desire to keep a piece of Charles grounded to this world when his silent assassin finally took him all too soon. He found the photo he was looking for - a copy of the one in the locket - and slipped it from the cover. He wasn’t expecting to see a small piece of paper beneath. He took it out, unfolded and read the contents, in Charles’ neat, elegant scribble.

_“Victoria Station. Locker 511. Bring your offline laptop. Forgive me, Arthur. C.”_

A sense of dread crept into his mind then. There were so many possibilities that Arthur had to shut them down before he became overwhelmed with panic. He took a deep, steadying breath. He was a gifted hacker. Arthur Clifton had no illusions about the dangers inherent in the world. He’d seen the best and the worst in people, as had his husband. His husband… _Charles’ law work could garner him many enemies… Another lover? Was he in danger?_ Arthur, again, shook his head and forced himself into pragmatic mode. Speculation was useless. He grabbed his laptop bag and coat and headed to Victoria Station.

* * *

Having commandeered the locker contents with no trouble, Arthur made his way to a nearby coffee shop amongst the bustling masses of rush hour London. He took a seat, glancing around as he did so. _Act paranoid, draw attention,_ he thought to himself, _pack it in, Clifton._ He opened his laptop and plugged in the flash drive he had retrieved from the locker. Headphones firmly in place, he opened the media file and pressed play. He frowned as he watched sequences from their wedding day play across the screen. It was only 20 seconds into the footage that Charles’ voice sounded calmly in his ear.

“Arthur. If you are listening to this, then it is too late for me. But it is not too late for you.” Arthur leaned calmly back trying not to betray the rising trepidation. “I hope the memories you are watching right now will keep you calm and grounded while I tell you what you need to hear. To keep you safe. But before I do, know that I love you.” Arthur kept both hands flat on the table either side of the screen, his face trained calm. “My death is not a random act of nature. It is murder.”Arthur’s heart thudded loud in his ears, so loud he thought it would drown out the sound of Charles’ voice, almost hoped it would. “Right now, they are watching. And when I die, they will come for you. But they will not get you. You will run. You will disappear. And you will be safe. Here’s what you have to do…”

* * *

 

 

FINALLY...

  
And in other news, I'm happy to share my crowdfunder has hit its target with 5 days left on the clock. Bring on the Bonobo Bond!

[Specimen 511 is Bubbles O'Seven in "Dr O."](http://kck.st/1Qjd8tM)


	12. Chapter 12

**_Shortly before Charles’ diagnosis_ **

_006 wandered through the British Museum aimlessly looking at its offerings. Sicily: Culture and Conquest. Such things rarely engaged the mind of the agent but seeing the roots of culture and contemplating the blossoming to our current incarnation made him somewhat intrigued. Were it not for such leaps, where would we be now? Still crawling around in the literal mud, he thought to himself. Though how much different that might be from crawling around in the figurative mud and swimming in the dark, murky waters of espionage was up for debate…_

_He felt the presence of a body slip in beside him to look at the ancient text contained within the glass case._

_“Fascinating how far we have come.”_

_“And yet how far we have still to go,” replied 006. He didn’t look at the man as he spoke. “You have something for us?”_

_“Not something, so much as someone,” he said, slipping his hands into his coat pockets. “Word on my grapevine is MI6 will soon be seeking a new Quartermaster.”_

_006 looked at him then. “How could you possibly know anything of the inner operations of MI6, Mr Sebastian?”_

_“My sources are sound so please don’t bother denying the fact.” He removed the hand closest to the agent from his pocket and handed him a flash drive. “In three months, the person on this flash drive will go on the run. He will evade you, the authorities, anyone who would seek to find him for 10 days,” he murmured, maintaining his forward gaze. “In that time, MI6 will discover they have found their new Quartermaster.”_

_He turned away then, looking back just briefly. “Like the Sicilians in their moment of enlightenment, your organisation might find a blossoming of their efforts under his hand. They would be wise not to miss such a golden opportunity.”_

_006 pocketed the flash drive and turned in the opposite direction. M would either be really pleased or really pissed off, he thought to himself, there was rarely an in-between with the woman._

* * *

Until the moment Charles had revealed to him his original, true purpose - to recruit him to the organisation for whom he worked - Arthur had considered himself nothing more than ordinary. And he had gone to great pains to ensure that was the veneer with which people were presented. At first. Certainly, a gifted coder and hacker but with stealthy employ of those gifts he had managed to stay off the radar as anything other than just a regular geek with a love of coding and engineering. Falling in love with Charles, however, had been the undoing of him. He had dropped his guard and allowed the genius within express himself to this dashing man he was so keen to impress. That man whom he was so keen to impress, turned out to be a key legal counsel of the SPECTRE organisation, singled out as Arthur’s type with the intent to befriend and recruit him for his talents in his area of expertise. Little did they realise however, until the relationship evolved and love had blindsided Charles Sebastian in the process, exactly how incredible was the prize upon which they had trained their eyes.

Loyalty was not to be tested in SPECTRE. Once you committed, you were theirs, body, heart and soul. So when Charles Sebastian gave his body, heart and soul to Arthur Clifton, betraying his employer in the process, there was little to be done but to remove him from the equation.

Charles Sebastian, however, was his own force with which to be reckoned. And while he could not save himself, he could at least save the man he loved.

* * *

In between Arthur Clifton and Q, between his simultaneous betrayal and salvation by Charles Sebastian, there was the ghost in the machine. A man who switched identities from day-to-day evading the good, the bad and the ugly who would make him their own.

Charles had told him to run. So Arthur had run.

And for ten days, he had run rings around those desperate to snare him first. Until finally, as per Charles’ instructions, he had allowed himself to be found.

He had, in possibly the boldest move of his relatively short life, sent a message directly to the computer screen of the Head of MI6.

M was sitting at her desk reading the latest reports from 007 on his most recent mission in Bolivia when the message window popped up on her screen.

_I’m ready. Are you?_

M looked at the screen with the degree of incredulity she frequently bestowed upon 007 when he returned to River House after causing some small scale destruction for which she would be forced to apologise. Of course she knew who it was. The cocky little bastard had been running rings around them for over a week, hacking their server, rewriting code and basically demonstrating that Q Branch was about as far from perfect as one could get. At least under the scrutiny and subjected to the skills of this nemesis. Despite it all, he hadn’t done any damage. Merely demonstrated the weaknesses in their system. M’s curiosity was rarely piqued. It was now.

She leaned forward and typed a reply.

_….…_

_Bravo. Trying to impress me?_

…….

_You’re already impressed._

Points for confidence, thought M to herself. Let’s hope it’s not misplaced. She typed again.

…….

_Can we meet?_

….…

_Trafalgar Square, 3pm today._

**Uplink Offline**

 

Not quite long enough to trace the source. Clever, thought M. She stood and headed for her door. Slipping on her coat as she passed Villiers desk, she said sharply, “have 006 meet me at my car in 10 minutes.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied crisply, picking up his phone.

She stepped into the lift. Hardly the most orthodox of interviews for the Quartermaster’s replacement but even she had to grudgingly admit to herself the man had some talent…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So while JuJuBee's guess that Charles was still alive was a damn good one - it was one of the scenarios I had contemplated - it was just too big a leap in the overall context of the TBAQ series. I hope you're not too disappointed! :D
> 
> Next Up: Back in SPECTRE's desert complex to reconnect with our boys.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one I know, but just needed to refocus and get it out after the flashback. The end is nigh!

Compose. Breathe.

His training was a glove Bond wore like a second skin. Yet the revelation that Obenhauser knew Arthur was something that damn near floored him. Three men faced each other in that dim room. Three destinies inexplicably intertwined. Some twisted joke that the Universe felt was fair in a world ruled by men who destroyed to protect.

“What’s the matter, Cuckoo? Cat got your tongue?” Obenhauser asked, revelling in the slightly dazed expression on Bond’s face, the dawning realisation that nothing is ever what it seems. In a tidal rush of memories that descend upon him, James remembers all the little tidbits of conversations in the not-so-distant-past.

_M - “I’d just prefer someone were watching over him. Just in case”; “This is a war of the shadows, Bond. We can’t fight it without him.”_

_Q - “Can I decrypt them? I invented them, 007.” “I never want to lie to you James, but fear the nature of our job may necessitate it.”_

“Ah there it is,” Obenhauser continued, pacing a few feet in front of them, watching with cruel intent the play and change shifting Bond’s features. “The blind man hearing the bad penny dropping right in front of him.”

He stopped in front of Q and sighed in a manner that could only be described as affectionate. Q remained impassive. “At last. Arthur. Face-to-face, as was always meant to be. Inevitable.”

He adopted a look of sadness, pouting his lower lip ever so slightly, regretful for the choices he had been forced to make. Such is the mind of the self-justified and the mad. “I am truly, truly sorry about Charles, you know. But his betrayal of my organisation was not something from which he could return. Death was his calling.”

Q flexed his wrists and fingers agitatedly, as if trying to release himself from invisible binds. “Did it have to be such a cruel and painful one?”

“Oh, but I had to keep you close, Arthur. You are so, so clever in more ways than I think even you realise, my little Bombe. A disappearance or a sudden departure by the man you loved would have surely chased you into the shadows before we could make you our own.”

“Stop. Calling me that,” Q ground out flatly through gritted teeth.

Obenhauser ignored the demand. He circled behind him. “Alas, Charles saw to that regardless. I was forced to seek my digital genius elsewhere. The stopgap Silva provided was adequate and - ohhhh… fun, in a psychotic kind of way I suppose…”

He resumed his position in the face of the Quartermaster once again. “But he was a poor second to you, Arthur. Silva was a genius but unstable and completely, irrationally obsessed with your leader. But in your absence I was forced to make do with the tools with which the world had seen fit to furnish me.” He glanced at the back of his hand as though to distract himself. “I even tried to orchestrate your capture after Charles’ funeral, and through that fool Philip Plaistow during the explosion that painted London brown and bloody with the dust of MI6…”

He smiled, exhaling a satisfying sigh. “But now, here you are,” gripping his upper arms briefly in a possessive gesture, as though convincing himself he was really here, causing Q to flinch from his touch into the bargain. Bond made a move forward towards them, only to be find himself on the receiving end of the butt of a gun to his skull. He collapsed in a dazed heap on the floor.

“Ah, James. I do apologise. I almost forgot you were there.” Obenhauser closed the few metres between him and the prone body of his adopted sibling, crouching down to meet him. “Here we are. Together again. But today, I get to repay you for your kindness. So many years ago, you took something from me. Now, you get to watch while I take something from you…”

Four bodies moved from the shadows towards Q and Bond, two reached out to take hold of Q by the arms. Bond moved to rise, instantly and instinctively reactive in his protectiveness. “No—“ the only word that escaped his lips, watching Q’s eyes go wide just before the gun cracked him over the back of his head again and he collapsed completely unconscious to the floor.


	14. Chapter 14

_He’s walking across the moors with his father and Kincade, a welcome interlude in his educational year, during which James has returned early from boarding school to spend time with his parents at Skyfall. His father is teaching him how to shoot. To respect weapons for the dangerous tools they are. They walk. They talk. James listens. His father’s words are precious. There is a truth and wisdom in each of them. He does not waste words when he speaks. James knows it is important to listen._

_“Love can be dangerous, James. But it only makes you weak if you see it as a weakness. And since when has anything that’s worth the effort ever been without risk?” Kincade walks ahead, giving the boy and his father their shared moments. Andrew Bond crouches down to look James in the eye, placing the rifle on the ground next to him to take hold of James by the arms and into a crushing embrace. “To know when to deny yourself love is as important as when to allow it. Knowing that, might one day save your life and the life of the person you love, James.”_

_So James listens, with all his senses, when engaging with the world around him. It’s an important skill. It’s what makes him such an incredible agent._

 

His vision is foggy. The first thing he feels is the metal trapping his wrists. The first thing he hears is Oberhauser’s voice. The first thing he sees as his sight clears is Q strapped into a reclining chair, head pinned down by a metal ring, immobilising him completely. Bond tugs his restraints experimentally, only to feel the press of cool metalled gun barrel against his temple.

“Excellent,” said Oberhauser, clapping his hands once, “you’re awake.” He took a seat next to Bond in front of a console. “I certainly wouldn’t want you to miss the show.”

Bond’s eyes remain fixed on Q. “What are you going to do, you mental bastard?” he growled, mouth dry.

Oberhauser swivelled in his chair, resting his palms flat on his thighs while he faced Bond. “James, James, James,” he said, shaking his head and sighing. He stood and walked over to Q, who had his eyes closed and was evidently focussed inwardly at the moment, trying to steady his rapidly evolving sense of inevitable doom. He ran his fingers through the tussled locks of the Quartermaster, took a relaxed stance next to his chair and clasped his hands in front of him.

“As you asked so nicely. First, I’m going to remove all his memories of the people he knows and loves, those he lost and those he despised. All the faces that ever crossed his path.” He stepped then to stand in front of Bond, tipping forward and placing his hands behind his back. “Then, Cuckoo, I’m going to let him watch while I kill you and you will watch him as he watches. He will be indifferent. He will be cold. He will not care because he will not know or remember you.”

Bond gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to tug at his restraints again, gripping the arms of his chair until his knuckles went whiter than the walls of the room around them. The metal tip of the gun still pressed to his head, reminding him how completely helpless he was.

He stood up straight and circled behind Bond, leaning over again, close to his ear, taunting in his tone of voice. “But before that, you will be treated to the sight of one Arthur Clifton, greatest asset of the British Secret Service betray his country and help me take complete control of the CNS, all the secrets of MI5 and MI6 combined for my pleasure.” He strolled towards his chair. “Oh I had promised Denbigh, a degree of autonomy and control in his new position as Head of the CNS, but really. Where’s the fun in that when I can have it all?”

Oberhauser took his seat in front of the console again and called with a sing-song tone. “Arrthhuurrr…” tapping away on the keys before him. “Arrthhuurr, my dear.”

Q opened his eyes. He couldn’t keep the beseeching, apologetic look from his eyes as he gazed at Bond. James recognised it instantly. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Arthur. We are soldiers. Our duty to our country always comes first.”

“Awww. How very touching,” said Obenhauser mockingly. “Pathetic, but touching.”

A few more keystrokes and he was done. He looked over at Q with a smile. “I suggest you take one last, long look at your Double-O. For in a moment, James and I will be trading places and I become the Cuckoo and steal you from him.”

He hit enter on the keyboard. “Say au revoir, mon amour,” he whispered with calm sadism, both he and Bond watching the thread-thin needle next to Q’s skull whirl into life and glide towards the top of his ear. “This might sting a little, Arthur…” were the last words Q heard before the sound of his own scream filled the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No. I don't know how I live with myself.


	15. Chapter 15

_He’d woken up to sunsets basking in the scent of salt air infused with the lingering aroma of pineapple and coconut. He’d fallen asleep, nerves frayed, a disembodied shell until he regained the sense of self required to pull himself back to normality. But he never once entertained the possibility that between those times of staged seduction and bodily devastation, he would one day find the care and love of someone of whom he felt so unworthy. Arthur Clifton, however, had an entirely different perspective on the subject. Bond watched from his kitchen door while Q bustled around his kitchen - stark bollock naked as good fortune would have it - throwing together something that might vaguely pass for breakfast. James was fully dressed and mission ready. “Don’t get dressed on my account will you, Arthur?”_

_“Oh don’t worry, James. I have no intention of doing so,” he replied smoothly, sashaying towards him (yes, you read that right), cup of coffee in one hand and suspicious looking box in the other. “I’m not due in for another 3 hours, but will be primed and ready at my post when you land.”_

_He handed him the cup and held the box in front of him, flat on his palm. “R will kit you out before you leave.” He reached up and lifted the lid. “This, however, is strictly a personal project, off the books, from me to you.” Inside, a Rolex Submariner Oyster Perpetual sat comfortably nestled around its black cushion._

_“Q. You shouldn’t have…”_

_Q huffed. “I bloody know I shouldn’t have. Don’t make me regret it,” he said, slipping it from the box and onto Bond’s wrist, Bond who never took his eyes from Q’s face while he fitted it on._

_He took his chin in his free hand and supplied a warm, sensual smile. “This feels like a proposal.”_

_“It’s nothing of the sort, 007, don’t be getting ideas above your station.”_

_“Says the man standing in front of me stark bollock naked looking good enough to eat? I can’t begin to classify the ideas above my station I’m having right now,” he mumbled, running his gaze down his body before pulling him close. “Does it have any Q-approved quirks installed for a Double-O’s pleasure?”_

_Q cleared his throat before pushing himself off Bond, determined not to be distracted. “As a matter of fact,” he brought the watch-bound wrist between them. “A geiger counter,” pointing to the button on the left, “and if you twist the ring around the face, it activates a demagnetiser. An electronic lock picker of sorts if you will. Works on magnetic cuffs as well of course.”_

_“Does it now. Don’t suppose…”_

_No, James. I do not have them here.” He smiled. “They are at Q-Branch. However, and if you are a very good boy and bring everything, not to mention my gift back intact, I may let you test them on me when you return.”_

_“Good enough,” nodded Bond, holding out his hand as though to seal the deal only to pull Q against him again to whisper a “thank you,” against his cheek._

 

Flanked by two men, led by a short grey-haired man in a grey suit, Q walked up the aisle of a large, elongated doomed room, either side of which were rows of computers, manned by nameless, faceless geniuses, weaving an intricate web of a spider’s making, a spider who wanted to control all the flies in the world. Who was Q to argue with such logic? He had listened while the man in the grey suit had told him his plans, how he would elevate him to unrecognisable heights of power in the world of information control. He would be master of all, the man in the grey suit would make him so. The good they could do together! With Q’s mind and the man in the grey suit’s (who had since identified himself as Ernst Stavro Blofeld) influence. It would be beautiful!

Q felt at home amongst the screens and the soothing sounds of processors. Home. Where was home? He had occasionally glanced at the blond man sitting opposite him. Gagged and strapped into a chair. Why was none of Q’s business as far as he was concerned. He just wanted to see this amazing piece of software called Nine Eyes and the hardware upon which such a powerful piece of kit could operate.

As he stepped onto the platform at the end of the room, all eyes on him, Q retreated into his mind and watched the codes flow back and forth, shaping, reforming, evolving into something vaguely recognisable. Deft fingers flew over the keys… And then… faint memories crossed and overlapped, flaring distractedly. The smell of bergamot, a subtle, familiar scent of musky cologne, gunpowder… Q shook his head, fingers faltering. A distant voice, Blofeld. Demanding.

_What are you doing? Why have you stopped?_

_Continue._

_Now._

A gun pressed into the small of his back.

_Don’t make me ask again._

Q resumed his movements across the keyboard, but now with revised intent. This man was not his friend. He had no intention of letting him live. _Dangerous,_ his instincts screamed loud and unbidden in his head. Blofeld was watching the blond man. Q double-looped the code and triggered a cascade set to destroy the system. He stepped back, vacant neutral expression in place.

“It’s done.” Blofeld stepped forward eagerly to survey the input that should have told him Nine Eyes would be online within the hour.In that moment, the blond man grabbed his opportunity, demagnetising his wrist cuffs and disarming one guard while quickly using his weapon to shoot the other. Just then, the banks of computers began to short and spark, screens going blank. Blofeld only suffered a moment of confusion before grabbing Q and putting him bodily between the blond man and himself. The blond man, who now had his gun trained on him, while the computer hacks ran in confusion and fear from the hub.

“Sabotage… Oh I am so very disappointed in you, little Bombe.” The fury in his eyes trained on Bond as he held Q with surprising strength against his chest, gun pressing hard into his temple. “Be disappointed in your futile attempts to turn me. I may not know who you are, but I know who I am,” Q ground out.

“Not to worry. I wouldn’t be a very good mastermind if I didn’t have a contingency plan now, would I?” Blofeld spat.

He spoke to the blond man then. “We will walk out that door and you will let us, James.”

 _James,_ thought Q to himself, _who are you?_

“I don’t think so,” said James. “You should have died on that mountain with your father. And I’m damn well going to finish the job,” he stated.

“Ha! You won’t shoot. What if you hit your precious Quartermaster?”

Bond shrugged. _Love can be dangerous, James. Don’t let it become a weakness,_ his father’s words echoed in his mind. “A small price to see you buried for good, Obenhauser.”

Q braced himself. So this is his end? As the banks of monitors flared, sparked and flamed around him, James looked to all intents and purposes like an Agent of Death Himself, sent to deal the final blow.

He didn’t disappoint.

James looked at Q with such a heart-wrenching swell of affection and love, he felt his heart go still. “I’m sorry, Q,” he whispered, just before he pulled the trigger.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate Chapter! 
> 
> I'm feeling a little melancholy to say the least. Who likes to say goodbye...?
> 
> POINT TO NOTE. One reader pointed out that this scene read like Q is actually dead. Not sure how to tweak the words but basically he is having an out-of-body experience, a phenomenon that has been accounted by some close to death but from which they have returned.

Not such a typical day in the life of a Quartermaster then. Well, it isn’t every day you get shot in the torso by MI6’s finest, is it.

Q watched the scene from above. Detached, disembodied, leaving behind the searing pain of that gunshot wound bestowed upon him by the blond man, by James. _That’s right, James._

“I’m not leaving you, Q. Never leaving you,” he heard him say, hoisting him over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift and taking full advantage of the blinding chaos invoked by Q only minutes before.

He left Blofeld lying in a heap, too concerned with getting Q to safety to bother checking his vitals. Q watched James jog effortlessly down the room and exit the main building, driven forward by adrenaline and danger; Watched as he took out two guards and swipe a semi-automatic from the collapsed body of one of them without breaking his stride. _Good thing I weigh next to nothing,_ Q thought to himself.

His confidence, assuredness and utter conviction that he was some kind of bulletproof angel left Q in no doubt that’s exactly what he was. As he shoved him into the helicopter, James tore off his shirt and wrapped it around Q to stem the bleeding.

“Stay with me Q. It’s not your time. Not your time. I won’t let you die.”

_Hmmm. Ironic words considering you were the one that shot me. Still. Maybe it wasn’t his time. He was young. Strong. James believed he could conquer death. He’d at least get points for trying._

Q cracked open his eyes while James, after starting the rotors, jumped out of the cockpit briefly to dispatch a couple of approaching goons. He caught Q’s eye and the smile of relief on his face made Q’s heart lurch. Though in that moment, he had no idea why.

“You fucking shot me. Are we supposed to be friends? Because I don’t think friends go round shooting each other.”

“Shut up, Q,” James said, no heat in the order as he angled the joystick to push them into the sky and towards safety. “Save your strength.”

And Q, obliging fellow that he was, slipped quietly into unconsciousness.

* * *

**_Six Weeks Later_ **

“Good to have you back, Quartermaster.”

“It’s good to be back, M. I’m gratified you saw your way to reinstate me, fit for duty, despite…”

M raised his hand to silence the man. “The psychologists deemed you fit, Q. Your impairment is localised to a very specific aspect of your memory. It has not impacted on your ability to do your job. That’s what matters going forward.” He leaned back in his chair, contemplating. “Besides. I’m told it may not be permanent? You could regain that part of your memory at any time?”

“Let’s hope so, Sir.”

“Indeed.”

Q stood then.

“Go home. Back to work tomorrow, Q. Lots to do.”

“Thank you. Goodnight, M.”

* * *

Q woke with a start in the pre-dawn darkness, Charles’ furry body stretched long against his back, George sitting up at the bottom of the bed, staring owlishly into the darkness.

Q sat up, a little stiffly, and heard himself saying to the darkness, “is someone there?” He was met with silence.

 _Foolish,_ he thought to himself, lying down again. _Still a bit jumpy after everything I suppose._ As he drifted back to sleep, he didn’t hear the soft click of his front door and the lock slide into place.

Not everyone is special enough to receive a visit from a Double-O in the middle of the night.

* * *

Next morning, showered, shaved and fed, Q picked up his messenger bag and was about to head to work when he heard a crash from his living room.

He sighed and rolled his eyes. The cats had been unsettled by his long absence and their time apart but that was no reason to wreck the place. He dropped the bag and headed to the room to assess the damage. He picked up the knocked-over phone and placed it back on the table next to the bookcase, when something else out of place caught his eye. He reached out and pulled the photo album from its designated place on the shelf and sat down. He flicked through the pages, wishing he could will the faces within back into his mind. He recalled the events of his past but those experiences remained disjointed from the people with whom he had shared those experiences. They were strangers to him. He sighed, sitting back and letting the book slip from his lap, George deciding in that moment said lap looked rather comfy and leapt up on him. Q moved to retrieve the item when he noticed one of the photos had come loose, a corner peeking out from between the pages. He pulled it out.

And stared at it for a very, very long time.


	17. Epilogue

He was thirty minutes late for work. R was very forgiving.

“No worries Q. I know you’re good for it,” she said with a wink, handing him her pad and signing off. “007 will be along shortly to be kitted out for assignment.”

“Righto. Fine. I’ll take care of that then.”

As it happened, just as R exited, 007 entered Q Branch. He stood for a moment, and took in the sight of that familiar, reassuring pose of the long, lean, cardiganed body standing at his post. They hadn’t seen each other properly since Bond pulled them out of the desert and back to civilisation, saving Q from the bullet he’d personally lodged in his body. Well, that is to say, Bond had visited him in Medical while Q was recuperating but he’d been drugged to the eyeballs so no doubt had no recollection of his presence. Watching him sleep for a few hours in his own bed last night had reassured Bond that Q was coming back to himself, albeit with some pieces missing. Bond took a levelling breath before adopting his usual swagger passed the minions towards the Quartermaster. Maybe it was better that Q didn’t remember their months together. Bond had sucked up plenty of emotional pain and loss in his life. This would be no different. He was conditioned for it. Built for it. It’s what made him such an efficient and thoroughly effective weapon in his job.

He assumed a respectful distance behind Q and waited. Q was performing his own calming meditations before he turned round.

“Welcome back, Quartermaster.”

“Well if it isn’t the man who killed me and then brought me back to life. Good to see you again, 007.”

“Is it?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant and not at all wary.

“You got the job done and that’s all anyone in this business could ever ask of you. You saved the day and saved me.”

And that was that. Or so Bond thought.

“Let’s get on, shall we?” said Q, turning back to his monitors. He nodded and stepped up to Q, both men standing shoulder to shoulder, watching the screens in front of them. Bond turned his head about to ask about the mission ahead when he noticed the slight blush creeping up Q’s neck.

He dropped his gaze to Q’s hand, which was sliding something face down on the desk in front of them towards Bond. James turned it over gently and found himself momentarily lost for words. He had completely forgotten about the one and only photo Q had taken on his phone, which evidently at some point, Q had chosen to print. The image therein captured a tender moment, the morning after his return from the Tel Aviv mission. A particularly lazy and rare morning where they were relaxing together in bed. Q was looking at the camera, a sleepy expression on his face, looking deliciously dishevelled. James’ eyes were closed, his forehead resting against Q’s cheekbone, lips not quite touching the line of his jaw. The hint of a smile barely noticeable but there. The image radiated everything they felt for each other. No words were needed.

Q made the first move, clumsy in his eagerness to reconnect with the man who obviously meant so much to him. Perhaps because he had to. The silence around them was deafening, drowned out by the pounding blood in Q’s ears, heart thudding, threatening to burst from his chest while he refamiliarised himself with the agent. _His_ agent. _James,_ he thought absently. The world fell away, both men fell away with it. All eyes in Q Branch were trained on perhaps what was the most erotic display of affection to which many of those geeky minions had ever been subject. He leaned back and took a shuddering breath while taking in the features of the man before him, a flood of memories washed over him like a soothing balm. “Daft bloody bastard I am. How could I possibly forget you?” he whispered breathlessly.

It was a stern, authoritative, all-too-cool voice that caused Q to take a further step back from Bond while straightening his glasses and struggling to get his breath back under control.

“Gentlemen. What the blazes do you think you’re doing?”

Both men turned to be faced down by Gareth Mallory, looking suitably thunderous at the inappropriate display in the heart of his domain. Flanked by Tanner and Moneypenny, both remained tight-lipped and looking very much like they were trying not to laugh. Moneypenny completely unfazed, while Tanner blushed ever so slightly.

“Tanner. Have a word with our Quartermaster, will you?” M said sternly.

With a backward tilt of his head and an equally firm look at Bond, he said flatly, “Walk with me, 007.”

“Sir,” he replied, falling into step beside him.

Tanner stepped in front of the man who was looking sufficiently embarrassed by his reckless assault of passion on the agent.

“One week’s suspension without pay, Q.” Q’s mouth fell open and he was about to protest when he glanced behind Tanner at Moneypenny who threw him a conspiratorial wink. He looked back at Tanner whose well-crafted expression of impassivity, now that he had regained his composure, stayed steadily trained on the man. He raised an eyebrow.

“Something you wish to say, Q?”

“No, Tanner. Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Excellent.” He turned away and with a clipped tone, “As of now, Q. Collect your things and make good use of this… mandatory break.”

Without another word, and under the admiring stares of his minions, Q dismounted his post, handed his pad to R’s assistant and departed Q Branch.

* * *

 

As the three entered the lift to return to M’s office and the doors slipped shut, Moneypenny spoke.

“He’s changed.”

M nodded. “Yes. Indeed he has.” He sighed. “He is, if it were at all possible, even more dangerous than he has ever been before.”

Tanner frowned at the observation. “Sir?”

“Simply put, Mr Tanner, anything that lands in the hands of our Quartermaster becomes exponentially more dangerous. And after being treated to that little display, it is evident that 007 would burn the world to protect our Quartermaster, which frankly? Is quite alright by me…”

Bond, of course, had been given similar marching orders to Q. Walking calmly towards his office, he felt his phone vibrate and smiled with an uncharacteristic broadness that threatened to crack his steely features when he read the text message.

_Meet you in the garage in 15._

Exiting the lift doors ten minutes later, Q saw the broad back of the agent down the row of cars, hips leaning against the bonnet. He walked to him and stood before him, not deigning to touch without an invitation. He’d already done that, surprising himself, Bond and half of MI6 into the bargain. So James decided for them both, pitching his upper body forward to grip Q by the waist and pull the man into him. Q fell forward, unresisting. “Did you know, when you shot me that it wouldn’t kill me?”

“Honestly? I couldn’t be sure. I hit you where Eve hit me. I admit, it was a gamble.”

Q leaned forward to take Bond’s lips in his own. “I absolutely should not be turned on right now, at the thought of the fact that we are the proud bearers of matching scars.”

Bond’s own eyes darkened, rolling himself so that Q was now pinned to the side of the car. “No you absolutely should not,” returning the kiss like a man starved.

“I was wondering, 007, if you would consider taking me to dinner?” he said, reaching up to trail long, gentle fingers through the agent’s hair. He was rewarded with a sigh and a closing of Bond’s eyes briefly, revelling in the touch. God, how he had missed those touches, the intimacy, the care… “I have a feeling I’d quite like to get to know you. All over again…”

James opened his eyes, incandescent against the florescent light of the underground car park. Q felt as though he was clawing his way from beneath the earth, wanting nothing more in the world than to rediscover what it was to have that blue glow burn through skin, muscle, and into his very bones.

The corner of Bond’s lips quirked, composure regained swift and smooth as ever.“With pleasure, Q. With pleasure.” Neither man took eyes from each other, Q rediscovering the orbit he hadn’t realised until that moment he had been adrift from.

“Let me drop you home,” said Bond, as they tore themselves away from each other and moved towards the car doors.

“Very well,” replied Q.

“I’ll pick you up later then. 9pm? For dinner I mean.”

Q smiled and nodded. “I look forward to it, 007.” He cleared his throat. “Dress code?”

“I believe you are the owner of a rather fine tailored, dark green suit. That should suffice for The Shard,” replied James, both climbing into the vehicle, his look telling Q he’d had prior experience of said suit. Bond revved the engine of the Aston to life and both indulged in a private smile at the sound of her purr. A feral machine crafted by Q with 007 in mind, wielded now by the agent with the care and affection he would bestow upon Q himself.

Regardless of the world in which they lived and its unpredictable, dangerous and sometimes deadly tendencies, one fact remained steadfast, as Q scolded the unnecessary screeching of the tyres and Bond rolled his eyes with a smile. He, James Bond, 007, would always be his agent and Arthur Clifton, Q, would always be his Quartermaster.

Because while some things change, some remain irrevocably, the same.

 

**THE END**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *DROPS MIKE* (Whoever the heck Mike is.)
> 
> Thanks everyone who read, kudos and commented. Feel at liberty to keep doing so. :)
> 
> I'm wrecked. Off for a vodka martini now.
> 
> 00Q. Forever...


End file.
